


white rabbit

by melforbes



Series: witch bedelia [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: WITCH BEDELIA, alternate universe in which massachusetts is a real state and new england has charm, he is a vampire she is a witch and her house is literally to die for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-18 13:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15487056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melforbes/pseuds/melforbes
Summary: It's improper to stare, he knows, but she intrigues him; based on how she looks over her shoulder as she walks back inside, he thinks she might be intrigued by him too.





	white rabbit

**Author's Note:**

> Though I claim ownership to the writing and plot, I do not claim ownership to the original idea, which can be seen [here](http://the-girl-who-didnt-make-anysense.tumblr.com/post/176415646013/incanto-in-a-world-where-magical-creatures-have), or, of course, to the characters.

The women in town talk about her, biding time between elementary pick-up and after-school music lessons by gossiping over too-sweet coffees at the only cafe in town.

"I know it's strange, but I _swear,_  she's better than a doctor," one woman says while he sips an espresso a few tables away, her two friends leaning intently toward the middle of their round table like three people in a secret, hushed meeting. "I go to my doctor, I tell him that I can't, well...that I'm never _ready_  for intimacy, so to speak. And he tells me it's just a consequence of getting _old!_  But I go to her, she takes a few notes, and three days later, she's got a bottle for me, enough to last a couple of months. Tells me to take it after dinner, or after lunch, or whenever I think it's a good idea. And, like that!"

The woman snaps her fingers in the middle of their circle, making the other two flinch in surprise.

"I've got a pussy that's twenty-nine again!"

When he has his hair cut, he hears the same things again, how she can work _magic,_  how someone's hair is shinier and someone else has a husband who loves her again. It's always women, never men. At the local bar, he poses to a few strangers a question of whether or not their wives have gotten _things_  from that woman on the edge of town; the answer is a unanimous, resounding yes, an appreciative, albeit perplexed, one at that. He asks, _why is it that you have not gone to her for something?_  And they shake their heads, shrug it off. No man needs shinier hair. No man worries if a spouse truly loves him, not enough to seek out a tincture from a woman on the edge of town. He's unsure that a man would search that far for much of anything.

He drives out to the forest on the edge of town, past the graveyard, past her house. The place is much too big for just one person, built in the nineteenth century and having at least four or five bedrooms, but he has no reason to believe that anyone else lives there, save for the rotating brigade of cats; at first, he sees a black one circle around back, mewling toward his car and ultimately deeming him uninteresting, but another time, he sees an orange tabby, licking at its paws as it sits on her porch, looking clean and well-kept but also vaguely lost. Out front, she has a Porsche 911, one of the old-bodied classics, a real beauty in shocking condition, the black paint taking him back to the shimmering Cadillacs of the forties. Once, he passed by to see her out on the widow's walk, palms on the railing, surveying the graveyard beyond her home. When she noticed that he was staring, she looked down, met his eyes, and gave a knowing half-smile.

So far, the people in town think he's a newcomer, that he takes the long commute into Boston on certain days of the week; that's why he wears such fine clothes, why he doesn't exactly blend in. That's always been his trademark, not blending in. He likes how people will stare and wonder but never have the gall to ask. In older times, rumors would have spread, the kind that burned people and put stakes through their hearts, but now, he's just a pale man in a suit, a newcomer who know one really knows. Between the internet, modern healthcare, and so-called _realism,_  humans have grown dull. He likes to play games with them in whatever way he can manage.

To eat, he goes into the vast woods at the outskirts of town and does what he can. They connect in part to the Appalachian Trail here; there's always a lost hiker or two, someone who won't be missed for some time, someone who won't fight back. Animals just aren't nearly as satisfying. By his own rule, he'll leave Massachusetts on the first of the next month, will either head north to Nova Scotia or south to Mississippi depending on which impulse he follows. Eventually, he would like to return to Europe, but nowadays, passport control is too tight for him to do anything but cross the Canadian border via car; they'll find it suspicious that he doesn't appear in photographic images, that his identification is clearly falsified and made with a different man's face in mind, if he were to even make it far enough for such things to be considered. For now, North America will have to manage.

Two weeks before Halloween, he drives by, sees her setting out carved pumpkins on her porch-steps, each with a tealight inside. Though the carvings are almost quotidian, the lineup of them, nearly twelve or fifteen, adds a haunting aura to the house, each pumpkin lit along her steps as the nights come earlier and earlier, the graveyard looming across the street. He watches her lean down to light one, bringing a match inside and casting light out, a warm glow coming to her steps. When she stands, she snuffs the match, brushes off her long, dark dress, looks out toward him. It's improper to stare, he knows, but she intrigues him; based on how she looks over her shoulder as she walks back inside, he thinks she might be intrigued by him too.

* * *

For every customer, it's the same: come to her door, use the brass knocker, wait for a response. If she isn't home, then she isn't home. If she doesn't respond, come back another time. He hears the unspoken rules spoken by women in the cafe, each trading secrets so that someone will have hairless legs, someone else a passing grade on her board examinations. After parking alongside her old Porsche, he walks up the steps, lit by jack-o'-lanterns, and knocks twice. The knocker is tarnished in a fingertip pattern; he's obviously not the first person to come in search of her expertise. 

When she opens the door, she's shorter than he expected, gloriously barefoot on hardwood floors, her nails painted navy. She wears a long, dark skirt and a turtleneck sweater, the day cold and her home much the same. Her hair tied back in a ribbon, she lets wisps fall forward, a halfway-practical style. Her eyes are as blue as the icing ponds in the woods, each cold but resistant, clinging to the last warmth of the season. She's beautiful.

Giving a soft, inviting smile, she opens the door for him, says, "Come in."

With an array of cats on the staircase, the place looks oddly inviting as soon as he walks in, the living room to his left done up with exotic tchotchkes and lit candles, the kitchen to his right showing wear on its tiles but smelling of spices, star anise and something else that he can't quite place. Some cats lie on their backs and clean their paws while others curl up to sleep; she motions for him to enter the living room, to sit down in one of the plush chairs. Though the furniture in the living room all matches, the armchairs done up with dusty rose velvet in perfect condition, nothing else seems to follow a pattern, tapestries hanging over aging walls, a gramophone propped up on a stack of old books playing some Billie Holiday. On the windowsills, there are lines of crystals and candles, bundles of herbs, dried flowers left from spring. She keeps a potted ivy atop a bookshelf, the vines snaking down between outdated guides to chemistry, human physiology, even palm-reading though that book looks largely untouched. He takes a seat, looks out at the fireplace, where a pot boils atop burning logs. 

Sitting down, a leather-bound notebook atop her crossed legs, she asks, "Why have you sought out my services?"

He's not entirely sure that he has an answer to that question.

"I'm looking to become more attractive," he offers, not quite definitive. He wants to offer her a challenge.

She smirks, eyebrows up. "More attractive."

"Yes."

"And what exactly do you deem _more attractive?_ "

She holds the cap of her pen to her pink, raw lips. For some reason, he had expected she would use a fountain pen, maybe a quill. His fault for assuming.

"I believe I would have to ask a certain person," he says.

She nods knowingly, with mild annoyance. _Not this again._

"Once you have asked," she says, her tone bidding him adieu, "I will be glad to help."

"Tell me, what is it that you find attractive?"

She rolls her eyes just enough to be considered involuntary, to almost be unnoticeable to him; he must not be the first to have asked. 

"I appreciate cash exclusively," she says, "though a bartering system can be arranged if you are an accountant willing to provide services for my business."

Setting her notebook down on a side-table, the wood scratched but bearing the most ornate carvings on its legs, she stands, concedes with, "Payment is due at the time of pickup, in exact change."

She walks back to her kitchen, dismisses him, lets him see himself to the door. Pausing, he stays a moment longer, wonders if she might come back but knows she won't. On his way out, he peeks in toward the kitchen, where she stirs a pot on the stove, sears salmon for lunch. The lone black cat sits atop the counter, its tail flicking each way, its yellowing eyes on him diligently, as if keeping guard. When she lets go of the spoon in her pot, the handle keeps moving in a stirring motion, as if someone invisible were doing the cooking on her behalf.

When he drives away, he leaves with a smile. He knows what she is. Unlike everyone else in this rural place, he understands.

* * *

The week before Halloween, he hits traffic in the main town area, ambulances lit in the distance, fire engines surrounding a house that seems not to be on fire. He rolls his window down, looks to a police officer directing traffic.

"What happened?" he asks while the cop urges him forward.

"Small fire," the cop says. "Keep it moving."

Like most of the towns in this area, a suburb of a suburb of Boston, the main square is just a few old buildings, all painted a color of abscission, ochre and ivory, tones to complement the peak of autumn. Some of the houses have businesses on their main floors, apartments in their upper portions, while others operate as inns, somewhere for city folk to stay during their fall vacations. The sidewalks are old and shattered in a quaint and purposeful way, the grass around them mowed, plenty of trees planted along the street so that those driving through can find themselves among the proper colors. Nowadays, most of the businesses are decorated for the holiday, pumpkins on doorsteps and false spiderwebs hung around trees. Some shopkeepers have even started to dress up.

When he passes the house with all of the hubbub, he sees that it's the mayor's place, a nice, old house that he's overheard has electrical and heating problems. Out front, the mayor's wife has her head in her hands, the children nowhere to be seen. Though the house seems largely intact, no large hoses in action, none of the firemen even dressed in proper attire, Hannibal knows that something tragic has happened here, something unexpected and atrocious. Once the traffic breaks, he bears right toward her home, far enough from the main square but close enough for trick-or-treaters to reach. This time, he knows what he wants.

She opens the door with the same soft, businesslike smile. She ushers him in just the same. This time, there are only two cats on the stairs, a grey one on its back and a black one, the same black one that looks at him as if he's bad news. He sits in the same chair; she opens the same notebook.

"I would like a combination of things," he says, looking to her. He knows she can handle a challenge.

"Such as?" She's nonplussed. Maybe he doesn't know what a challenge _is_  for her.

"I would like to have greater patience." He pauses. "I would like to be more sociable."

As she writes, he peeks down, sees that it's not English, not quite, maybe some kind of shorthand. Though he recognizes a few chemical formulas, he doesn't recognize certain symbols, ones that don't fit in with the rest. He wishes he could turn through the pages of her notebook, see exactly what each page reads.

"And?"

She looks up at him, eyes big and blue, almost restless. 

"I would like to draw others in," he says. "Be more appealing."

"In what ways?"

"I would like others to start conversations with me," he explains. "I would like to be seen as interesting."

"And what, do you think, makes you most interesting?"

At that, he stops, half-smirks. _If only._

"I'm not from here," he says, but she knows that already, clearly knows that already.

"Where are you from?"

"Other places. Many, I suppose."

"What brings you here?"

"I tend not to stay in one place particularly long."

"I tend not to stray from here."

"Business is good?"

"Very good."

"The town is beautiful at this time of year."

"Yes."

"The main square was full of traffic, unfortunately," he says. "Fire in one of the houses along the road."

"They happen," she concedes casually. "Old wiring."

She points her pen toward a tapestry done up with the planetary orbits in ornate print. 

"Sometimes, you must cover the results," she gives, then returns to her notebook. "Would you wish to prioritize greater physical attractiveness?"

He pauses, asks, "In what ways would you recommend?"

"Stronger hair, hair growth, facial hair," she offers. "The men who come to me tend to ask about hair."

"Do you think that is what makes a man attractive?"

And she takes this as her cue to go. She closes the notebook, stands once again. This time, she wears a velvet skirt, a slit up the long side, one pale leg seen while the other remains hidden. The day is too warm for a sweater, so she wears a light blouse instead, the maroon of it telling the secret that she has largely-hidden freckles. 

"It will be forty that I'll bill," she says, once again returning to her kitchen. "I only accept exact change."

He nods in agreement even though she cannot see him, then stands, heads for the door. However, he mills over the kitchen again, looks to her. This time, she's organizing a stack of cookbooks, some so quotidian that they look out of place her in home, some old and tattered. Adjacent to the oven, a dusty shelf sits; she brings a duster over its surface, then replaces the cookbooks. The black and white tiles match the two cats cleaning themselves on the kitchen floor; two aloe plants sit on the windowsill, one that overlooks a garden out back of her home.

"Do you need my name, my phone number?" he asks. 

"No," she gives, looking at the books and not at him.

"When shall I pick up, then?"

She pauses for a moment, doesn't have an immediate answer. On her kitchen table - a tattered wooden thing, done up with a purple velvet cloth to make it appear fancier, two cats that he hasn't seen before sit. The window looking out at where her car is parked is done up with stained glass, an amateur attempt, something she may have patched together herself. In the corner of the room, a record player, a more recent one with a stack of records leaning against its table, plays a muted, brassy _oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz?_

Not checking a calendar, not overthinking, she offers, "Friday, in the evening."

He smirks, wants to read something more into it. When he goes to leave, he nearly trips over the black cat, who has maneuvered its way between his legs. Prying himself away, he stares down at the cat, locks eye contact with this judgmental thing, watches it narrow its eyes with malaise. He pulls himself from the house, shuts the front door before the cat can chase him out.

The next day, the local paper announces that the major is dead from an apparent accident in his home. A wake will be hosted on Wednesday evening in order to keep the upcoming holiday sacred, and a funeral's date will be announced sometime soon. So, the man's body is being cremated. Hannibal looks over the article, tries to discern the real meaning from it, _accident in his home._  A small fire shouldn't kill a man, not while his wife is there, not with the house remaining intact. Driving through the main square, he looks to the house again, the place in perfect condition given its age, the yellow-colored paint off-putting but little more. He can see far enough through the window to know that the children are watching television, no care in the world. Once he passes by, he notices a woman walking along the sidewalk, carrying a casserole dish. Americans can be so predictable.

To hunt, he takes the route by her home, her car still parked out front, her windows this time propped open, music wafting through the warm-for-autumn air, Ella Fitzgerald singing about having someone to watch over her. She's added more lanterns to the front porch, a strand of little white lights hung along the porch. In the air, he can smell butter and vanilla, popped corn; she's cooking, though he doesn't quite know what. When he makes his way to the forest, he admires it, how she decorates and bakes for Halloween, how she embraces the holiday. He wonders if she'll dress up, if she has to. Though he doesn't know much about her, he knows for certain that they share a trait for self-expression, a complete lack of denial. No one is ever going to ask if she's a witch, but everyone will certainly wonder.

Though he never knew the mayor, he knows better than to avoid a local death, to try to pull blame away from himself, so he dresses well, attends the wake, follows groups of women from the cafe back to the mayor's home. There's alcohol; he lets someone he doesn't know pour him two fingers of whiskey that he won't drink. Cheese platters, donated sandwiches from the local sub shop, an untouched vegetable plate, he eyes it all with indifference while listening to the people talk.

"I hear the house was fine," one woman says. "It was just _him_  that set on fire."

"Burn the witch!" another woman jokes back.

They hush over the ranch dip; someone cracks a carrot between their teeth. 

"In all seriousness," the first woman asks, "do you think this has anything to do with those girls?"

"Oh, hush," the second woman retorts. "We all know that's not true."

"They were saying he was going to plead guilty."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean he did it."

"I suppose it _would_  be hard to prove."

"High school girls just want attention. They wanted their names in the paper, and they knew saying _he_  did it would get them there."

"But one of them was twelve, for God's sake."

"You know how kids can be. Here, have a tomato. They're so _juicy._ "

* * *

On Friday, over another espresso he won't drink, he hears the gossip compound, word traveling fast but growing less and less intelligible. One person believes that three girls, _the_  three girls, came into his house, doused him with kerosene, and lit a match, all while his wife watched; another claims that he had a cooking accident, then was valiant enough to keep it from spreading to the remainder of the house. _It's such a nice house, isn't it?_  He wonders if any of the people who frequent the cafe work.

"You know," a woman, surrounded by a group of gossipy friends, says, "I heard something...controversial. Something that hasn't been said before."

"Which is?" another woman asks. 

"Apparently, his wife commissioned something from _her_  two weeks before he died."

The group grows aghast, and Hannibal starts listening more closely.

"Yeah, his wife was _there,_  at that house, and she asked for something. And based on the current state of her hair, we _know_  she didn't get something for herself."

"Are you implying he was _poisoned?_ " someone whisper-sneers, a _keep it down_  statement.

"He couldn't have been poisoned," another scoffs. "He caught on _fire._ "

"Yeah," someone else chimes in, "but do we really _know_  what she puts in that stuff?"

"Have fun trying to take a witch to court," the original woman huffs, and suddenly, the table goes still, silent. "Oh, come _on._  That was a joke!"

After school lets out, the whole town begins to transform into their version of Halloween, children dressed in costumes, the main square becoming a pedestrian zone, teenagers working apple-bobbing stands, hayrides causing traffic jams on the rural roads. Way out in the countryside, there's a corn maze, one where teenagers will sneak out to after night has fallen; signs about watching the roads for trick-or-treaters are posted at every telephone pole. At seven in the evening, he drives out to her home, parks alongside her car, walks past a group of heading-out costumed children as he ascends her porch-steps. Based on what the children were holding, she's giving out homemade popcorn balls.

He knocks twice, and when she opens the door, he doesn't look to her, to the staircase, to anywhere; he just goes into the living room and sits in the same chair, then pulls his wallet from the pocket of his pants. She has Jefferson Airplane playing quietly. He has two crisp twenty-dollar bills for her, taken straight from some now-dead hiker's wallet. There isn't even any blood on them.

Almost cautiously, she joins him in the living room, two cats he's never seen before heeling her. She's dressed in a long, black gown, the front dipping to reveal her collarbone, the back just open enough for him to see how muscular she is; the sleeves are long, right to her wrists, and the skirt dusts the ground as she goes to sit. For the first time, he notices that she doesn't have overhead lighting, not even a lamp, just candles in the windowsills and the warm, inviting fire. The cats curl up at her feet. 

"The bottle for you is in the next room," she says, a simultaneous assertion and implication; she wants to know why he led her here, what he wants beyond a pickup. 

"I would like to know you better," he says, and she smirks, unsurprised. _Thought so._  "What is it exactly that you practice?"

"I'm a naturopathic doctor."

She has her degrees hanging on one of the walls in the kitchen. He can't quite remember which universities. 

"Your notes were not based in naturopathy," he says.

"I prefer to write in shorthand."

"Is it homeopathy, then?"

"Not homeopathy, no."

"You reference chemical formulas."

She stops, weighs her words, offers, "My work combines chemistry, alchemy, and the willingness of the human mind."

"Chemistry was once called alchemy," he says. "The reactions were considered to be magic. As the study grew, it was found that these reactions were quite predictable, rather than unique."

She smirks, says, "I have no interest in pursuing something replicable."

"Is replicability not the essence of science?"

"I wouldn't call what I practice a _science._ "

"What is it, then, that you have blended for me?"

She pulls one foot out from underneath the cats, crosses her legs, leans back into her chair. Beyond the windows, the sun begins to set; she's cast in a dusky glow, candlelight flickering around her. 

"A combination of things," she says. "Lavender, chamomile, mint."

"What else?"

"Irish whiskey, for extraction purposes," she offers. "Whole vanilla beans."

"These things can be found in any store."

"I haven't given you my full list of ingredients."

"Will you?"

"No." She smirks. 

"Why not?"

"Because human will alters one's course," she says, then goes to stand. 

He hears a knock at the door, something she seems to have anticipated. Watching her walk toward the front door, he marvels at how she left a big, obvious, feather-adorned hat on the stairs, the final portion of her costume. _She's a witch!_  the trick-or-treating children will say when they get home, to which their parents will comment _yes, we already knew that._  From where he sits, he can just see that she has a whole basket of goodies for the children, half of the basket filled with wrapped-up popcorn balls and the other half full of large candy bars. She's any child's Halloween dream.

"Thank you!" the children echo as they make their way down her porch-steps, minding the lanterns and lighting flashlights once they reach the road. She closes the door behind them, leaves the hat on the stairs, and eventually returns to the living room, a brown glass bottle in her hands.

"This should be kept away from sunlight," she prompts; he pulls out his bills. "Ideal storage is at sixty degrees." 

He holds out the bills; she takes them, then gently offers him the bottle. In thanks, he nods once, then begins standing, takes his cue to leave.

Once he's out of the living room, almost to the front door, he hears her call, "I'd like to ask questions about your work."

Her tone is anything but desperate, a saving grace; she thinks he was about to embarrass himself by leaving, so she's saved him the mortification. When he looks back, her face is taut and aloof. After a moment's pause, she adds a dry, almost humorous, "Sir."

Conceding, he returns to his seat, sets the bottle on a side-table adorned with crystals, wedges it between rose quartz and citrine. 

"So," she prompts, "I've heard that a few hikers have gone missing."

"I've heard that the mayor's wife commissioned products from you."

She smirks, all-knowing. He kills those who won't be missed; she kills pedophiles. They both know whose work is more commendable. 

"Some believe legal action could be taken," he prompts, warns.

"I have no fear of legal action."

"Then, what is it that you do fear?"

The record clicks off, ending. Coming in from the other room, two cats prop themselves on windowsills, pushing over stones and charms. He can hear trick-or-treaters coming up her porch-steps. For now, his question will go unanswered.

By nine, she's out of popcorn balls and Mars bars. The most popular Halloween costume this year is Wonder Woman, even for boys. They move into her kitchen, where she offers him fresh mint tea. the herb plucked straight from her garden. At the center of the velvet-lined table, she's left two lit candles. The full moon above casts just enough light through the stained glass that her face is cast in color, warm and multifaceted. She sips tea delicately from a porcelain cup, lips leaving no trace behind. 

"Do you find that most of your clients are women?" he asks.

"Most, yes," she admits. 

"Is there a reason why?"

She weighs her words, offers, "Women, I find, feel more trapped than men do."

"In what ways?"

"In beauty," she offers. "In marriages."

"And how do you treat such things?"

"These women know what they want," she explains. "Longer hair, thinner waist. But what they don't realize is that these wishes stem from a deeper place. What I do is rid them of the obsession. I let them find their way free from their original desires."

She takes a sip of tea, then adds, "When women are no longer held to the arbitrary standards of those around them, they're given room for life. And when women can live uninhibited, women triumph."

Though he pretends to drink, he ought not to; she knows what he is, can see through his attempts at courtesy. However, she smiles against her cup whenever he takes a sip, the look almost impish. She likes that he's trying to be polite.

Once their mugs are empty, she brings them to her kitchen sink, leaves them there for now. He likes the way her long skirt trails over the worn tiles, how her wrists are adorned with fabric, how pale the back of her neck looks in this light. When she returns to the table, she takes to not her seat but his, standing alongside him, bringing a palm to his shoulder, asking permission that, with a look to her, he grants.

She balls her skirt in her free fist, exposes one pale leg, a daintily-pointed foot, as she brackets his hips, faces him, her legs around his body. As she straddles him, the skirt bunches up on her thighs, the fabric weighty against his legs. She's warm, human, shockingly un-delicate; he's always known that she's muscular, but now, he can _feel_  that she is, legs thick with muscle, shoulders strong as she brings her hand from his shoulder to his cheek, cupping gingerly. 

"I hope I haven't misinterpreted anything," she says, but she clearly isn't hoping; the statement is for clarification, a mere pleasantry, something she knows will receive a certain predictable response.

"You haven't," he says, as she knew he would. 

She brushes her thumb over his cheek, feeling the coldness of his skin, confirming what she already knew. Though she hasn't said so, he can tell what she's thinking, that all of her time being the sole controller of this town is over, that she's met her intellectual match and that, when other people go up in sporadic flames, she won't have the secret of _why_  stay between her client and herself anymore. She should threaten him, and for that matter, he should threaten her, but instead, all he senses is intrigue, a commonality, a shared possession of the lives of others. With a flick of the wrist, a snap of the fingers, she could leave him for dead, and he could do the same with a bite to her neck, pulsating with life, stilling while two conspicuous marks remain. No matter what the suspicions may be, neither of them will ever try to cover anything up. Neither of them can deny indulgence. Neither of them can judge each other for living, their _living_  markedly different from that of all other residents of this town. Neither of them is capable of shame.

He should be jealous of her, angry with her, pushed away from this town by her, but instead, all he feels is intrigue. In some way, he knows this should be his downfall, perhaps hers as well. Yesterday, he was preparing for his trip north or south, to abandon this town altogether, but now, he imagines the hours between _now_  and _then_  stretching out before him the way her neck does when she tilts her head, sizes him up. Her eyes are cast grey in this light, stained glass leaving patterns across her cheeks. 

When she kisses him, mouth warm and achingly slow, he lets her lead, knowing that he's helpless, perhaps hopeless against her, that she must be better than him at this. She knows this too, reaching down to bring his hands to her hips, and he can't feel anything beneath her dress, not that he has the neural capacity to sense more than the way she kisses him, agonizing in her intricacy, just starting out. She wants to savor him. Based on his business interactions with her, he doubts she wants to savor just anyone.

The cats scatter when she pulls him up the stairs, each one creaking as her bare dancer-feet ascend them, one hand holding up her skirt and the other tugging him onward. Her bedroom's windows overlook the graveyard, and the dark-wooded canopy bed in the center of the room has wispy white curtains hanging all around - _the summer ones,_  she mentions offhandedly, under her breath, claiming that it's about time she changed them. While he's kissing her neck in bed, body heavy over hers, her hands clutching at his hair, a dingy teenage car passes beneath her open windows, intoxicated kids blasting "Night Moves" from decrepit speakers. They park somewhere close, going to the graveyard, taking half-assed swigs from Southern Comfort bottles stolen from their parents. Pulling a hand from his hair, she tenses, as if about to get up, and snaps her fingers once; suddenly, he hears the shouts, the _oh shit_ s and the _dude, what the fuck_ s, and she laughs wickedly beneath him, long fingers bunching the back of his shirt. The car pulls out; the radio spirals away, growing distant; though he doesn't know what she's done, he can imagine it was grotesque. He doesn't expect anything less. 

"Happens every year," she whispers to him, her voice velvety. 

"Will they have ghost stories to tell?" 

He nips at her neck; she laughs again, body languid, pads of her feet pressing down against the feathery mattress. 

"We all have ghost stories to tell," she says, pulling him up toward her and kissing him.

* * *

"I never had the typical course of education," she admits, his arm draped over her warm belly, one of his legs coming across her hips, between her own. While she is on her back, he curls into her on his side, sharing her pillow. "My mother could see that I wasn't like other girls but denied it enough that my father never had any suspicions. She told me to cover things up, even the things I didn't realize were my fault."

"Were they often your fault, in the end?"

She smirks uncomfortably, gives, "Even if I later learned that there was no possible way for me to have done those things."

Nodding, he pictures her mother, an astute, older version of her, someone strict and too-tall, someone with a permanent scowl. He understands why she lacks photographs in her home.

"I went to college like everyone else in my graduating class did," she says, "and I figured, chemistry. Chemistry and philosophy. Though it wasn't what I wanted, it was something I could control. With Western medicine being so stringent, so strict, I realized I couldn't go on to medical school, not one of that variety, so I pursued naturopathy."

Beyond the open windows, November rain fell, making tinny sounds off of her gutters, illuminating the sky with sporadic lightning. She toys with his hair absentmindedly, gaze toward the billowing curtains, the graveyard beyond. When he looks down at her neck, marked by affection and nothing else, he wants to smooth his fingers over the skin there, feel the thrum of her heartbeat beneath his fingertips. Though she's like him, they're so different as well, so faceted, and he wants to ask her those questions, to see her perspective, to learn the stories of her practice and her home. Unlike other witches he's met - none too kind, and none too interested in him - she seems not to practice something organized, something typical. On her walls, she did have hanging the proper degrees, but he knew there was more to her work than pure naturopathy, more than the standard Wiccan that women who'd scoffed him a _sucker_  practiced. He wants to know the roots of her power, the greatest details of how hers exceeds his. He wants to know how she manages that power with such grace, such poise, that she only strikes when provoked, even if by proxy. He wants to know the burden of her power, and the beauty of it.

"Have you ever met other women like you?" he asks. 

He watches the shift in her jaw, the awkward scowl.

"They've tended to be less than hospitable," she says. "Clan politics, group politics, _media portrayals._  They'll base whole lives on tarot card readings, but heaven forbid I mention that I'm trained in acupuncture. They treat it as if it's..."

"Witchcraft?" he fills in for her.

Looking down to him, she has a soft, funny smile on her lips, a goodhearted look.

"Yes," she admits, "strangely enough."

"No Wiccan teachings, then?"

"Wiccans aren't witches," she says, as if such a thing were obvious to all. "Wicca is a religion, created by a man. It is far from my beliefs."

"And what are your beliefs?"

She weighs her words, offers, "My heritage is French and Irish. I've tended toward the Celtic tradition, though I've never lived outside of this country. I've met druids before, gotten on well with them."

"The makers of unspoken law," he adds.

"Some laws never need to be spoken."

"How did you immolate that man?"

She laughs involuntarily, says, "Butane. Poured it all over. All you need, then, is a match."

"Really?"

" _No,_ " she says, "and I didn't set him on fire; he set himself."

"A clever alibi."

"A truth, not an alibi."

She grasps his hair between her fingers and pulls.

"Would you mind bringing me a glass of water?" she asks, looking down at him.

"Not at all," he says, leaning away from her grasp, sitting up in bed. 

"There's a robe in the closet," she offers as he stands, and surely enough, there is, a men's size much too big for her, unwashed and unworn, made of dark grey silk. Strange.

When he walks down the stairs, the cats - maybe ten or twelve of them, the most he's seen - scatter from the staircase, finding respective hollows and hammocks in other places. One nests on a windowsill, right above hanging herbs; another goes back to the living room, arguably the most comfortable spot; a grey one follows him into the kitchen, rubbing at his bare legs, making him wince. Though he doesn't mind the animals, he must admit, as the floors creak under cat-paws, that she has many, _many_  more cats than one would expect. 

He finds a glass in the cabinet, then hesitates at the sink. Is the water drinkable? These are things he hasn't had to worry about in years, the quality of the water, whether or not such a thing is suitable. In Europe, everyone would always specify _tap water,_  bottled being the assumption; he couldn't remember seeing anyone in the cafe drinking from a bottle, but then again, Americans didn't bring out soda in a bottle paired with a glass either, so maybe bottles were hidden, a culturally shunned aspect of drinking. Maybe she has a carafe in the fridge.

When he opens the fridge, he stills, finding the carafe but finding an array of other things as well: peaches too fresh given the season, meat in butcher's packaging, a carton of eggs from a nearby farm, leaves of basil kept from browning. However, the most shocking part of her refrigerator is the top shelf, where three large mason jars full of deep red liquid sit, each marked with wax pencil. Each contains too much to have kept its source alive. For two, she gave succinct descriptions of _pig_  or _cow,_  but for the third, she lists only the blood type. Needing confirmation, he pulls the jar labeled _pig_  from the shelve, undoes the lid, and yes, this is most definitely pig's blood; he can remember the taste all too well, the scent alone bringing him back to so many places in Europe, where such blood was the easiest to come by. Farming byproduct, sellers would claim, like the ears or the hooves, but plenty of people would buy it nonetheless. In the United States, he finds it easier to purchase cow's blood, even cow's hearts when absolutely necessary; the scent of pig's blood is like the scent of something greasy to him, something old and disliked. When he switches the jars, opening the cow's blood, he knows this one is the truth as well, takes in the scent of something between a bland meal and a three-star restaurant's fare. That's the one thing he really misses, _food._  Of course, he palates his current meals well enough, tasting the variations, the antibodies and the different cells, the plasma counts and clotting means, but he misses the presentation of a plate, the wafting scent. When he takes to the type-labeled jar, he breathes it in, the scent luxurious, a proper feast even in its truncated form. If he brings the jar to his lips now, there won't be any left by morning. This one smells sweet, a high-carbohydrate diet, perhaps low insulin; he can detect the traces of recent infection, maybe not-so-recent, maybe a vaccination. He has to resist dipping one finger in, taking even the smallest of tastes.

If she only had the animal bloods, he would not dwell on their presence, but the human blood, she couldn't have found that as a farming byproduct. If she wants human blood, she must find it by other means, likely illegal means, and there haven't been any suspicious deaths other than the mayor's, not since he's been here. He can almost picture her visiting a patient in the hospital, her naturopathic training offering some comfort to an ailing person; he could imagine her waiting for the patient to be relaxed in acupuncture, then finding her way to a room that held a glimmering red bag on a pole. She would do what she could to that patient - she's capable, he knows it - and once the patient was incapacitated, she would rip at the tubing for the intravenous fluids, use her mouth to siphon blood into a new container. He could imagine her leaving the hospital with a circle of blood on her lips, no one recognizing that such a thing wasn't just her lipstick.

She isn't an impulsive person. Though he knows that well enough, he's surprised he assumed that this night had been one of happenstance, that he would think she could have had other intentions. While he thought about whether or not he could express interest in her, she was buying him breakfast, many steps ahead.

He fills the glass with the water from the carafe, then ascends the stairs, the cats coming back to claim their rightful places on the steps. Reentering the room, he finds her sitting back in bed, leaning on her forearms, looking over at him with one eyebrow just barely raised. Her curls, now mussed, go over one shoulder, revealing the graceful lines of her neck, the bareness of her skin. With one leg outstretched, she bends the other, the pad of her foot pressing into the mattress, a vague and sleepy-eyed challenge on her visage.

"Lost?" she half-mocks, half-jokes. 

He leaves the glass on her bedside table, not intending for her to drink from it, not giving her a moment of solace to do so. Now, it's his turn to take her by surprise.

* * *

He dresses before she wakes in the morning, the day overcast, a blessing. If he's lucky, he'll make it out of the town before anyone can notice him, before anyone can think to look. He'll stop for supplies somewhere, take the mason jars with him - she has no use for the typed one, he figures - and find his way, figuring it all out as he goes. As he leaves her house, cats mewling at him while he shuts the front door, he knows that this is the worst part, the not knowing. In some towns, he'll only stay a day, the people looking at him oddly, some kind of local tradition meaning that his kind aren't welcome; he doesn't want to have to keep moving, but if he needs to, then he must. An early start will do him good. In just a few hours, he'll be well beyond the state's border, out of Massachusetts and on to better places.

But leaving her in bed, her curls astray on her pillow, the long length of her neck left exposed, he felt as if he were betraying something, as if he were stepping away from great importance. She's just a woman, just a witch. There are so many other women - and witches, for that matter - in the world, and she's just one of them, living in a too-big house next to a graveyard, keeping far more cats than he could ever count. He's known her for all of a few weeks, only known her well enough to call her a friend for a day. Though he feels as if he's leaving something - or, rather, someone - behind, he has to tell himself that he's not leaving anything at all, that any thoughts of abandonment are concocted and false.

By the time he reaches the highway, he decides it would be best to forget her. He puts the radio on, the silence in the car overwhelming; the first station is American pop, can't have that, so he scans until he finds something he can recognize, something older. Though he, for the most part, liked the little town at which he stayed, he must say that Massachusetts is hellish to travel through, the highway dull, the colorful leaves beautiful in their autumnal grace but mind-numbing the longer he drives. If he goes somewhere warmer, he'll have to grow nocturnal again, but if he goes somewhere cooler, he'll have the horrid winter months to deal with, the potential to be trapped in one place for a long time. As he passes an exit sign, he starts to realize that, even though he's traveling north, he never actually decided where he would go, where he wants to end this journey. So, Nova Scotia it is, but when he imagines the seaside grasses there, he pictures her smoothing out her skirt as she sits in them, folding up her legs while she watches the tide roll in. He pictures her in fisherman sweaters, tying her hair back as she brews something for a customer, volunteering to read folklore to children at the local library. He pictures not having to leave again.

He exits at his next opportunity, starts going in the opposite direction. Though he once thought it was this country that was desolate, he knows that what was desolate was his life, going from one place to the next, no friends or accomplishments to his name, nowhere keeping him too long. The most he does is overhear gossip; sometimes, he doesn't even find a flat, just sleeps in his car and bathes in rivers after hunting. It's naive, he knows, to go back, to ask to stay, but as he exits for the little town, he doesn't know why she would deny him. 

 _I never told you what I fear,_  she said the night beforehand, tired and sated, breath coming in little catching-up pants.

He curled toward her, spooning her, sharing her pillow. Though almost everything about her surprised him, what surprised him most was that she liked physical proximity, divine closeness. He liked the feeling of her in his arms, small but strong, soft skin, human warmth. 

 _What scares you, then?_  he asked, voice quiet, breath hot against her neck.

 _That there is no room for me in this world,_  she said. _That I'll always be an edge-of-town outcast._

 _What would you want instead?_  he asked.

 _Not popularity,_  she clarified. _No, just...something. An awareness. I would like to hear something about myself that isn't a rumor._

 _Such as?_  he said.

 _That I'm interesting,_  she gave. _That I'm worth knowing._

When he comes into her drive, her car is still there, still bright and polished; the rain has let up for the moment, but the morning is still dark, still overcast. Though the lanterns are still on the porch, the tealights have all burned down; the cats are inside for the moment, keeping to places dry and warm. He takes to the brass knocker again, just like the first time; he thrums with anxiety as he hears her footsteps approaching the door, unsure of what to say, of how to explain himself.

She answers, opening the door and speaking in the same tone, one meant to help him avoid potential embarrassment. 

"You left your order behind," she says, looking up at him, predicting his actions, seeing through him in ways that should be off-putting but instead make him feel relieved.

This time, he will stay.


End file.
